by Rob Ashman
Pay The Penance
The Final book in The Mechanic Trilogy
Rob Ashman
Copyright © 2017 Rob Ashman
The right of Rob Ashman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
www.bloodhoundbooks.com
Contents
Also by Rob Ashman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
A Note from Bloodhound Books:
Also by Rob Ashman
Have you read the first two books in The Mechanic Trilogy
Those That Remain
In Your Name
1
New Jersey
June 1985
Fabiano Bassano was watching baseball in his man-cave. The room was full of excited chatter as the additives from the fizzy drinks and chocolate snacks began to kick in and the kids went a little crazy. He liked nothing better than watching the game with his five grandchildren. They were mad about baseball and mad about Grandpa.
Whenever they got together it was always the same. The kids talked over the commentary, walked in front of the TV, and bombarded him with questions about the rules, but that was fine. For Fabiano Bassano, enjoying the ball game with his grandchildren had nothing to do with the ball game.
‘Hey, what’s going on,’ he cried, holding up an empty beer bottle. ‘Who’s on bar duty?’
One of the children reached up, snatched it from his grasp and dashed into the kitchen, returning a minute later with a frosted replacement, courtesy of Grandma.
Zak, the youngest, snuggled on to the chair alongside him.
‘Grandpa, why do you have this silly picture?’ His shock of black tousled hair hid his face as he gazed at a silver framed photograph in his tiny hand. He looked up, his moon face and bright eyes waiting for his favourite playmate to respond.
‘Yes, that is a silly picture, isn’t it?’
They both laughed.
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know. Someone gave it to me. I like it, don’t you?’
‘Yes, I like it too.’
‘It makes me smile.’
‘It makes me smile too, Grandpa. Who gave it to you?’
‘A friend of Uncle Chris.’
‘Is he the one who died?’
‘Yes. He died when you were small.’
‘I like it.’ Zak turned the picture over in his hands and the frame caught the light.
‘I’ll let you into a secret.’ Fabiano bent his head and whispered into the child’s ear. ‘Do you know what today is?’
‘No, what?’
‘Today is its birthday.’
‘Its birthday?’ Zak was fixated, not taking his eyes off the image. ‘How can a picture have a birthday?’
‘Well, it’s one year ago today that the photograph was taken.’
‘Wow, then it does have a birthday.’ Zak and his grandpa sang Happy Birthday. But Grandpa struggled on occasion to get his words out. When they finished he dabbed his eyes with his sleeve.
‘Now put it back and we can watch the game.’
Zak shuffled off the chair and placed it on the shelf.
It was an odd photograph.
2
Thursday 19 April 1984
Sorrento, Italy
Mechanic bumped the front tyre of the Vespa scooter against the kerb and parked up. From her cliff-top vantage point the view across the Bay of Naples was stunning. She watched as the sun dipped below the horizon and mirrored the sea with the burnt pink of the sky. The salt breeze cut through her shirt, cool against her skin. It was the perfect evening to kill a stranger.
The Italian resort buzzed with the excitement of three thousand pilgrims visiting for the Easter festival. She had flown into Naples International, taken a rental car and driven the fifty-two kilometres south, down the A3 to Sorrento. The car was parked at the hotel, the only way to get around was by scooter, and everybody had one. They buzzed around town like wasps at a picnic and were just as annoying. Mechanic turned off the ignition, kicked down the stand and put the keys into her pocket. She slipped on a thin cotton fleece, swung a black backpack onto her shoulder and headed for the centre.
Mechanic’s face was tanned gold and her short hair streaked blonde from the sun. She looked like any other carefree tourist in search of religious tradition and culture. The truth was very different. She had only arrived the day before, the effects of the sun came from running in Balboa Park, San Diego, and she was in search of a man who had something she wanted.
Piazza Tasso was the beating heart of Sorrento, a beautiful square full of cafés, bars and restaurants, with a web of small roads radiating from it. She sat outside Fauno’s café, ordered an espresso and watched the throngs of people milling about.
Today was Maundy Thursday, and the procession of Our Lady of Sorrows had taken place earlier in the afternoon. Hundreds of people dressed in hooded white robes had marched through the narrow streets. Mechanic was waiting for the later, much larger, procession, commemorating the Madonna’s mourning when she found her son dead.
She lifted a newspaper from her bag as her coffee arrived.
‘Grazie,’ she said, stirring in dainty cubes of sugar.
Thousands of fairy lights burst into life, piercing the dusk with pinpricks of colour, while waiters busied themselves lighting candles in jars. The heat of the day was fast disappearing and Mechanic zipped up her jacket.
The coffee was strong and the mountain of sugar masked the bitterness. She flicked through the pages and scanned the headlines, not paying the slightest attention to what they said, concentrating instead on the middle-aged man taking his seat four tables away. He was dressed in a white linen suit and brown sandals. His skin had the appearance of worn leather and he sported a white Fedora hat, which made him look like a Bond villain.
Fedora man clicked his fingers
and a waiter scurried across. Without looking at the menu he ordered food and a bottle of wine in fluent Italian.
Mechanic followed his lead, but with iced mineral water and no finger clicking.
The clock face said 11.30 and the square was packed with people eager to see the Madonna’s statue carried aloft, supported by the hundreds of white-robed figures.
Fedora man wiped his mouth with a napkin, clipped a handful of notes into the bill folder and left his table. Mechanic had already left the café and was sitting across the square on a low wall watching the swelling crowds. She followed him as he meandered his way along the side streets. He frequently stopped to browse the tourist mementos outside the shops and doubled back on himself several times. Mechanic kept her distance, she was used to dealing with textbook anti-surveillance measures.
There was an eruption of singing and the sound of a band striking up in another street. The procession had begun.
Fedora man quickened his pace and weaved his way towards the music. At the end of the road Mechanic could see a gathering of white-robed people all jockeying for position behind the holy statue. Fedora man ducked through a doorway into a bar.
Mechanic darted into a dark alley opposite, opened her backpack and took out a white hooded robe. She flattened out the backpack, pushed her arms through the straps and pulled it tight. She slipped on the white robe and watched the entrance to the bar as the minutes ticked by. A man wearing an identical costume emerged from the bar. He was minus his hat but recognisable all the same. He jerked the hood forward and pushed himself into the throng of people.
Mechanic kept her eyes firmly targeted on Fedora man and joined the tight knot of people. She weaved between the worshippers and in less than two minutes he was in front of her, his brown sandals clearly visible beneath his robe. Mechanic mingled with the sea of white, keeping within six feet of her target. The singing grew louder as more people joined the throng, walking down Corso Italia and winding their way through the narrow lanes.
Fedora man veered off to his left and started talking to someone. Mechanic couldn’t hear what was being said, but they were definitely having a conversation. Fedora man lost his footing on the cobbled stones and stumbled. The person to his left stepped forward and grabbed him around his waist. His right sleeve rolled back as he did so and Mechanic could see a man’s arm. There were audible exchanges of grazie and prego.
That was it, the exchange was made.
Fedora man slowed his pace allowing people to pass him. He was now level with Mechanic and going backwards as the people marched on through the streets. She ignored him and kept her focus on the new guy wearing bright yellow running shoes underneath his robes. The procession stopped outside a church, and some people broke off and went inside. Yellow shoes guy stayed put.
After a short ceremony the parade moved onto the next church, and the next. Each time was the same. At the sixth church Mechanic saw the man in yellow shoes drift to the edge and when the parade stopped he entered the church. Mechanic followed.
The inside had a traditional layout, with a central aisle leading to an altar with a tall stained-glass window behind. Either side of the aisle were rows of wooden pews with kneeling cushions on the floor. The place was half-full, with people crammed into the front rows and the priest standing at the front. The figures in white sat amongst the congregation and the priest started speaking. Mechanic watched her target take a seat at the back against the wall. She shifted her place in the queue and sat beside him. No one else joined them.
She pulled back her hood, glancing to the side. The man was in his mid-thirties with angular features and pale skin, which blended into the whitewashed wall. The service started and everyone stood – he was taller than Mechanic with a slender build. His hands were fidgeting in front of him.
The priest chanted and people mumbled in return. The soulful sound of an organ reverberated against the vaulted ceiling and the congregation sang. Mechanic glanced down at the order of service. Her Italian wasn’t good but she could understand enough.
She could see the word preghiamo.
The priest was intent on making up for the empty seats and bellowed out the song like Pavarotti. He particularly enjoyed the end of the chorus and gave full vent to the high notes, which he could barely reach. Mechanic counted down the verses, waiting for the final chorus.
The man beside her sang under his breath, his eyes searching the pews, his hands still fidgeting. She slid her right hand through a side slit in her robe and drew the gun tucked into her belt. The silencer made the weapon difficult to manoeuvre under the material. The priest built himself up to a rousing finale and blasted out the final line of the hymn.
The gun spat.
The .22 hollow-point shell made a small neat hole just below the man’s ribcage, then flattened to the size of a dime as it tore through his body. Mechanic wound her left arm around his waist and gripped him tight. The second round entered through the same hole and ripped into his heart. He went limp.
Mechanic supported his weight against the wall. He was heavy and she jammed her body against him to keep him upright. The singing stopped.
The priest looked up from his book and said ‘Farci preda’. The entire congregation sank to their knees in prayer, clasping their hands in front of their faces.
Mechanic lowered the man to the floor. She raised his arms and propped him against the pew in front, flicking the hood over his head.
As the church filled with the sound of murmuring prayer, she patted her hands against his body and felt the slim package tucked into his shirt. She removed it and pushed it inside her own.
The congregation stood up and started filing out. Mechanic didn’t move. She kept her head bowed mimicking her colleague, both of them kneeling in the act of silent worship. The red stain on his robe was getting bigger and blood was pooling at his right knee. When the last of the people shuffled past, Mechanic eased away from the body and joined the line of people exiting the church, pulling her hood forward.
Outside she merged into the crowd and after walking a short distance broke away into a side street. She stripped off her robe and bundled it into the backpack before walking back to Piazza Tasso where her scooter was waiting. The key turned in the ignition and she drove away.
She reached the hotel and parked, just as a parade of a different sort was starting up. Two police cars thundered down the main road closely followed by an ambulance.
Mechanic had no idea what was in the package, even less why it was worth killing a man to get it. But two things she was sure of: in fourteen hours she would be back on American soil, and she’d be a damn sight wealthier than when she left.
3
When the sniper’s bullet exploded his wife’s head into a thousand pieces, it shattered Lucas’s life into a thousand more. The shock took away his ability to function, rendering him unable to do the most basic of tasks. And being unable to cope, Harper took over.
Dick Harper, a man famously unable to get through the week without causing himself significant harm, stepped up to the plate. He looked after his friend in his own inadequate way. He made the arrangements for the funeral and sorted out Darlene’s affairs, while Lucas spent his days sitting in a chair staring with moist eyes into the middle distance.
Lucas did have one searing burst of emotion which tore him from his grief-induced stupor. He met Heather Whitchel at the funeral.
Heather Whitchel, the woman who had given his wife a place to stay when she finally snapped and left him. The woman who had confirmed all of Darlene’s grievances and told her she was doing the right thing. The woman who had acted as his wife’s self-appointed guard dog, repelling his attempts at a reconciliation. The woman who had got her rocks off by playing judge and jury on whether or not to hand over the phone.
Heather Whitchel, the woman who had denied Lucas his last chance to speak to his wife before her life was snuffed out.
At the funeral, the room was full of polite chitchat over tea and
sandwiches. Heather spotted Lucas and made a beeline for him, wanting to give her condolences. Up to that point Lucas had dismissed her attempts to contact him, she was the last person in the world he wanted to talk to. Harper had played the guard dog role by blocking her calls, but she was slow on the uptake and was not taking the hint.
But under these circumstances she had direct access, and if she was foolish enough to persist, then Lucas wasn’t going to hold back.
She slithered up to Lucas dressed in a stick-insect trouser suit and a starched plain white shirt that matched her face. She oozed simpering remorse.
She put her hand on his arm.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She layered an amateur dramatic emphasis on the word ‘so’.
Lucas placed his hand on hers. It was the touching reunion she had dreamed of.
‘You know, Heather, every night I wish I could turn back the clock.’
‘I know, I know,’ she nodded, a crocodile tear welling in her eye.
‘And every night, I wish it was you who took that bullet, and not Darlene.’
Lucas pressed his hand on hers.
‘But all I mean is …’ She glanced down at her trapped hand.
